


Dances in Darkness - Book 2: Kirkwall

by HigheverRains



Series: Dances In Darkness [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age II Spoilers, Dragon Age Spoilers, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3866974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigheverRains/pseuds/HigheverRains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She turned the amulet over in her hands, over and over, watching it catching the light. A small thing, a small trade for safety.</p><p>Two lives, their home, their whole way of life, and possibly her freedom. A small trade? She tucked it away angrily. It would never be small. Could never be small. And she would never pay a price like it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Violence, Character Death (Canon)
> 
> Comments Always Welcome
> 
> If you have not read Dances in Darkness - Book 1: Eideann, it can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3721120/chapters/8241325).

They came in darkness, like all evil does, shapes that emerged from the Wilds to the south. She heard it first as grunts in the darkness, eerie roars that ripped her from sleep and roused her amidst the screaming.

And there was light, flickering and bright and orange and wrong.

Sidonie shot up, her staff in her hand almost before she realized she had moved for it, and stomped her feet deep into her boots. She threw on the only thing she owned with any protection: mabari leather light tracking armor she wore when she sparred with Carver.

Carver was already up in the living room, Bethany in Ferelden farmer chainmail looking about with wild eyes. Her mother was not there, so Sidonie immediately burst through the door to find the woman throwing things into a bag. She grabbed the woman by the collar, pulling her back.

“Mother! There is no more time!”

“Wait! Just a little – !”

“Now!” She tore the bag from her Mother’s bed and thrust it into the woman’s hands. “Mother, run!”

Lady was barking, snarling and growling, and Carver stood with his sword out at the door. Bethany slipped through, then Leandra, and Hawke emerged into the chaos.

Lothering was burning.

The fire had spread from the shanty town she had been unable to empty up onto the roof of the nearby homes. People were running, screaming. Even the Chantry had caught, the wood shingles going up in bursts, crackling and smoking. The great sunburst carved from wood at the steeple was aflame.

And the unearthly roars split the earth as the darkspawn poured across the Drakon River tributary that split Lothering in twain. Sidonie did not wait, she pushed Leandra and Bethany forward, northward, and grabbed Carver’s arm. He nodded to her fiercely, but there was panic in his eyes. He wasn’t even wearing armor, just a farmer’s shirt. Sidonie gritted her teeth.

“Run,” she told him.

The chantry steeple collapsed and fire raced across the grass, smoldering and blocking off the houses. People screamed within, and Sidonie twirled, slamming force downward and extinguishing enough of the flames to get them out.

The forests to the south were black as night, and the creatures that poured into Lothering were equally dark. They flickered in and out, as if they were only real half the time, tearing through packs of refugees and ripping apart Templars that were in as much a panic as the fleeing farmers were.

Sidonie raced through the fields, up the center of town, the darkspawn always behind. She saw refugees falter about her, their feet pulled from under them, screams echoing up into the smoky light, and the first time in a long time so prayed to Andraste to save them. _Maker, don’t let them die!_

She almost fell then, stumbling over the corpse of the merchant who had been trying to rip them all off over food just the day before, but she managed to make it to the Windmill north of town. Even that was catching fire now, and she steered Carver, Bethany, and Mother away from it, away from the Imperial Highway and up into the hills.

_Maker, don’t let them die!_

The hills were steep around Lothering, still in the eastern Hinterlands, but they knew the paths the shepherds took when they went to graze the rams, and it was these they climbed, higher and higher into the hills until the plains of the Bannorn stretched before them in darkness.

They ran, harder and faster than they ever had, and Sidonie lost track of the direction. She did not think of Lothering, of the scent of burning flesh in the air about them, behind them, of the roars of the horde as it destroyed everything in its path, of what was lost. She just ran, panting hard, struggling into the night.

Until at last Mother could not run anymore. She fell, her bag flying from her arms, their things scattering, and she burst into tears there and then. Sidonie turned back, aware they had no chance but to fight whatever emerged from the darkness now, and Carver put himself in the path between Mother and anything that may have followed. Bethany threw up a wall of flames, blocking the way forward. Sidonie reached to help Leandra rise, then to gather whatever could be saved from the spilled bag and shove it away, securing the straps this time on her own shoulder.

They were still too close, but they could go no further. Sidonie took stock in the darkness, trying to find anything in the dim light, and eventually pointed out a small cave that retreated into the hills.

“There…for now…” she said, pointing. Bethany helped their mother in, and Carver retreated back behind Sidonie as she threw up a barrier across the entrance. Barriers were not her strong point, but her own fear had forced it into being, and it held. She sank down into a seat, her staff at her side across the stone floor, and looked at them all in the near darkness.

It was that grey sort of twilight before dawn’s golden light flooded through, so she could make out Carver’s anger and fear. Her mother was crying. Bethany looked desperate, exhausted, and cold. She was shivering.

“ _Why_ ,” her little sister demanded, “did we wait so long!?” It was a question they had all been asking. After all, she and Carver had been telling them to leave for weeks, and each day they had stayed instead, there was always something else to do, someone else to help, not enough food, not enough water, the need to pack things, nowhere else to go.

Sidonie’s eyes narrowed as she saw Carver flinch.

“Why are you looking at me?!” he demanded, glaring at his twin across the cave. “I’ve been running since Ostagar!” Sidonie sighed, curling her knees up to her chest and shaking her head.

“Well, we can’t rest here for long. As soon as the light is enough to see by, we have to go,” she said firmly. “ I refuse to die in a hole like a dwarf.” Her mother heaved a great breath, shaking her head.

“Maker save us,” she said weakly. “We’ve lost it all. Everything your father and I built.” Sidonie shook her head.

“At least we’re alive,” she pointed out frankly. “That’s no small feat.” Her mother fixed her with a look, blue eyes damp with tears, and then nodded.

“Yes,” she admitted, looking away. “You’re right.” Sidonie sighed, taking stock. They had no money, no food, only the sack of her mother’s things which were sentimental. Carver had brought a bag of his own, but no armor, and Bethany looked like she had no idea what she was going to do. Sidonie had nothing, only her staff and her armor and a pendant from her father Malcolm that she never took off.

“Where are we going?” Bethany asked in a quiet voice. Sidonie realized with a start they were still so young, her siblings. Eighteen the both of them. She grimaced. “We can’t just wander, aimlessly.”

“So long as we wander away from the horde, I’m happy,” she said simply. Carver’s mouth quirked in an ever so slight smile, or maybe she imagined it. She was fighting her own fear. Any moment she expected to feel something meet her barrier, expected to have to fight.

But the dawn was coming upon them now. They only needed to rest a little longer, and then they could see where they were headed.

“We can go to Kirkwall,” Leandra said suddenly, and all three of their heads shot to stare.

“Well that wouldn’t be my first choice,” Sidonie said after a moment, feeling the awkwardness of the silence. She wished she had been more convincing, gotten Mother to leave sooner, cleared more villagers from Lothering in time. Maker, she could still smell the fires. Even here.

“There are a _lot_ of Templars in Kirkwall, Mother,” Bethany added, looking frightened. Two apostates travelling to Kirkwall was definitely the worst idea in the world. Their mother was a Marcher, born and bred as Kirkwall nobility. And there really were no options. Crossing the sea would probably be the only way to escape the Blight. Especially if what that Lady Cousland had said was true and there were only two Grey Wardens alive in all of Ferelden. They had to get out of the country. Where else _could_ they go? She grimaced.

“I know that,” Leandra said in reply, considering Bethany in the growing light. “But we still have family there. And an estate.” It was more than anything else. Their family had never had a family, being an escaped Circle Mage from the Kirkwall Gallows, and their mother’s only Ferelden relatives were dead after their children had been taken and sent to Kinloch Hold. And the rumors coming out of there…

Bethany heaved a great sigh.

“Then we need to get to Gwaren and take ship.” Sidonie thought about it a moment, and wondered if Gwaren was the best option. To get there, they would need to cross the Brecilian Forest, with its winding roots and secret ways. The Dalish roamed those areas, and there was no guarantee the darkspawn had not followed the spread of the forest. She would rather flee to Denerim herself if they must go. She scowled, then sighed.

“If we survive that long,” Carver sniffed, turning away and rising. “I’ll just be happy to get out of here.” It was dawn, and he was itching to go. Sidonie rose too, and after checking the way was clear dissolved her barrier.

They stood for a moment at the cave entrance, staring at what they had run from. Lothering still burned, eclipsed in a cloud of black smoke, but that was the least of it. The land around them was dead, the grass wilted, the earth charred black with Blight and Taint.

“Maker…” Sidonie whispered, staring. Bethany was silent beside her. Carver grimaced.

“We need to go,” he said fiercely. “It’s almost too late.”

And so they ran.

Sidonie had not thought to encounter anyone else, since they had stopped. Surely they were the last. But there were others, a couple battled a slew of darkspawn that swarmed them.

Sidonie recognized one was in Templar armor, but she was not about to let people die when she could help, and they needed to cross that way anyway. She hurried forward, into their midst, through the darkspawn, and a Mind Blast erupted out from her, throwing the darkspawn back.

It was a woman with the Templar, who had hefted his shield on her arm and stood helping him to stand. His sword arm was twisted, and he held it against him weakly.

Carver was in their midst in a moment, his greatsword carving a giant arc through the darkspawn and leaving some cleaved right in two. Sidonie’s halberd spun, taking off the head of one creature and splattering its blood onto the dying earth. The spear at the bottom of the halberd pierced another. And a final spell thrust them all away again, this time force, this time more deliberate.

Bethany set the bastards on fire.

And then they were left, facing the woman and the Templar and wondering what was going to happen next. Behind them the Imperial Highway twisted and rose into the distance, and all the land was dead between there and where they stood.

“Stop squirming, Wesley, you’ll make it worse,” the woman demanded as the Templar tried to push away from her. He ignored her, breaking free and taking a threatening step in Hawke’s direction.

“Apostate! Keep your distance,” he said darkly. Bethany gave a sniff from behind her.

“Well the Maker has a sense of humor,” she said darkly. “Huh. Darkspawn and now a Templar? I thought they all abandoned Lothering.” Sidonie glanced back to her, then gritted her teeth. The man was clearly not going to play nicely.

“The ‘spawn are clear in their intent,” he said, confirming her suspicions, “but a mage is always unknown. The order dictates – “

“Wesley!” the woman beside him said sharply.

“These women are apostates. The _order_ dictates – ” The woman had a shock of orange hair. Sidonie watched as she put her hand on the man’s arm, drawing him back away from her.

“Wesley,” she said more gently. “They saved us. The Maker understands.” There was a tense moment where he just stared at Sidonie, and Sidonie just stared back, and then he finally stepped back, bowing out.

“Of course,” he said softly. And he put some distance between them then. The woman looked at them, then sighed.

“I am Aveline Vallen. This is my husband, Ser Wesley,” she introduced. “We can hate each other when we are safe from the horde.” Sidonie considered them carefully.

“For awhile,” she said cautiously, “it looked like we were the only ones to escape the darkspawn.” Carver shot her a dark look.

“We aren’t free of them yet,” he said, arms crossed. His sword was standing point first stuck in the earth, ready for use at a moment’s notice. His crossed arm and severe look mirrored Ser Wesley’s. “It’s just like at Ostagar. This is just the start.”

“You were there?” Aveline asked. “Yes, I see it now. Third company, under Captain Varrel.” Carver’s blue eyes stared at her under thick brows, haunted and unwelcome.

“Then you saw how the whole of the army was defeated,” he said, and Sidonie could hear the fear in his voice. Carver did not like being afraid. Aveline’s voice was steady, calm, but there was a ripple of anger too.

“We fell to betrayal,” she said darkly. “Not the darkspawn. This arm of the horde will not have the same advantage.” Carver grimaced, but he uncrossed his arms, taking up his blade.

“How bad is that wound?” Hawke asked, motioning to the Templar’s arm. It looked horrible. She was no healer, but Bethany had some skills in that regard. The Templar looked down, his brows knitting together, and grimaced at the pain.

“I think my sword arm’s a loss even with healing,” he admitted, and what it cost him to say so to a pair of apostates, she could not fathom.

“Then you will have mine,” Aveline said simply, looking to him, and he met her eyes. “As always.” She offered him a slight smile, but Sidonie could see the fear in her eyes too. Then she sighed, glancing back to Sidonie and the others. “For now, we’ll move with you. North is cut off. We barely escaped the main body of the horde,” she said. Leandra covered her face and made a distressed sound. Sidonie shook her head.

“Then we’re trapped,” Carver said. “The Wilds are to the south. That’s no way out!” Sidonie closed her eyes a moment.

“If our choices are go south or die, I choose south,” she said simply, and pushed through Aveline and Ser Wesley to take the path that skirted Lothering to the east.

The sun was not the warm sort that filtered through the orchard branches and beamed on the fields before. It was cold, harsh, glaring without providing warmth in the Ferelden winter that threatened. The Blighted land was like a desert, wrecked by the taint and blackened like it had been scorched. The Black City itself was such a color, Sidonie thought, though she tried to stay clear of traversing the Fade except when she could not help it. It was best to keep herself contained.

“Magic,” Malcolm Hawke had once said, “should serve what is best in me, not what is most base.” She and Bethany lived by that tenet, that creed. Before Malcolm had died, he had trained them both to guard against the evils that could tempt them into darkness. Bethany was certainly better at keeping her temperament reigned in. She was calmer, like cool waters or gentle streams in the woods, glades of flowers and soft birdsong. Some days Sidonie envied her that presence of mind. She was currently battling back the anger that threatened to explode as she saw what the Blight had done to their home.

She let firelight bounce at her fingers, her father’s trick to channel her passion into something safer, and watched the way ahead.

There were fewer darkspawn, since the bulk had followed the Imperial Highway northward and would soon overrun the Bannorn. Still, there were stragglers, which Sidonie decided would be better off burned and dead than near her and her family and their companions. Part of her also wanted to show this Templar that they were not monsters, that they were not evil simply because they had magic. She had her pride at stake in that at least.

Lothering was still smoking well into morning, flames leaping high into the air as they moved south, closer to the Wilds, closer to the swamps. The Chasind that had fled through the village had warned them that the Wilds were overrun, but the horde itself had moved on, and there were no other choices. They would have to go through the Brecilian Forest to Gwaren now and hope for the best.

The treeline into the Wilds was corrupted, twisted and blackened, the trees leaning over or wilted and warped. The Blight had ravaged even those dead lands, until the torque had broken some of the trees and felled them, and the stagnant waters were blackened and roiling with the Taint. Sidonie stared at them, horrified, her oxblood gaze wide. Beside her, Bethany breathed a shaking breath.

“How will it ever be the same?” she asked weakly, and Sidonie could only shake her head.

They never made it to the Korcari Wilds, for all they lay right there. The ground began to shake under them, deep heavy shakes like footsteps, and a roar split the air about them.

It came from nowhere, a great horned beast, and charged through them, knocking Carver aside and plowing past Aveline. Sidonie managed to throw herself from its direct path, landing heavily and awkwardly in the dirt. She spun about in time to see it pull up short, hovering over her mother and sister.

Bethany called out a prayer, as if her Maker could protect her, and flame burst forth.

But it was not enough. The creature just roared, horned head lowered, and scooped her up in massive hands. Its beady eyes peered at Bethany in fury, then crushed her in its fist, and Sidonie felt the scream reverberate through her. She watched, helpless, as the creature rammed her sister down into the ground, once, twice, and then tossed her aside like a broken doll.

Bethany flew across the clearing, broken limbs flailing, to land at an odd angle with her eyes transfixed, as if her final act was to stare with Malcolm Hawke’s brown eyes into her sister’s soul.

There was a wordless roar as Carver’s rage and loss was known, and Sidonie forced the tears away, forced herself to save her brother.

She pushed herself up, tears on her cheeks, and screamed her own roar of rage, feeling demons pressing against the Veil. She forced them back too, forced everything back, force magic erupting from her and knocking the giant Ogre backward off its feet. Fire hotter than any she had conjured exploded about her, racing towards the creature, and she ran to stand by Carver, her halberd blade flashing in the cruel sunlight.

Carver thrust his blade into the mottled grey skin of the giant darkspawn, twisted and brought the thing raging down. Sidonie slammed her spearhead into the thing’s eye, magic erupted along the haft of her staff, rippling the air as it exploded outward, blowing the thing apart from the inside out. Force hit it over and over and over, pummeling it down into the ground, and Carver swung his sword about to hack through its thick neck. And then the think lay dead, butchered and half in pieces, broken. Its toxic blood poured out of the earth, and Sidonie felt Carver’s hands on her shoulders.

He stood before her, shouting something at her, shaking her. She could not hear him for a moment. And then she could.

“Sidonie! Sidonie! Stop!” She could feel the air about them wavering, the Veil threatening to give way, and immediately dropped all magic, her face contorting until she forced herself to push away the tears. She turned, desperate, to where Bethany lay, and they ran.

Leandra Hawke knelt over her daughter, rocking back and forth and screaming wordlessly to the heavens for the Maker, for anyone, anything, just anything.

Sidonie and Carver dropped down beside her, Sidonie reaching for Bethany’s face, to touch her hair, but stopping herself, drawing back.

Carver looked pale, hollow, like half his soul had just been torn out, and he could not look away. He was kneeling in the blood that pooled from Bethany’s body.

It was Sidonie who finally spoke, finally said real words, unable to deal with the rage and the pain. She could feel demons there, right there, and she would not let them in. She looked hopelessly between Carver and her mother, and then she reached for her Mother.

“Mother…we should grieve when we’re safe…” she said, and it hurt to say it, but it was true. There were still darkspawn. They could all die here, now. Leandra pushed her away.

“Don’t talk to me of grief!” she hissed, cradling Bethany’s head in her hands. “This is your fault!” The shock of that ran through her like a blade. Sidonie recoiled, falling backward off her knees and away. Carver bent over Bethany, his eyes red with tears, and let out a helpless snarl. Sidonie looked at him then, shaking, sobbing over Bethany. How would he live without her? How would any of them? But there still was no time.

She struggled to stand. Carver forced himself back, reaching for her with his torn hands from fighting, and she felt his grip tight on her arm.

“If we stand here weeping,” he said with effort, and what it cost him to do it, she would never know, “the darkspawn will take the rest of us too.” Leandra looked up, tears streaming down her crumpled face.

“Allow me,” came the gentle tones of Ser Wesley, “to commend your daughter’s soul to the Maker, Mistress.” Leandra looked to him. It was a simple thing to offer, and so meaningful, and he stood over them then, muttering the words priests use. He was Templar, he had some right to them after all.

“Ashes we were and ashes we become,” he intoned, one hand over his heart as he beseeched whatever Maker had let this happen to Bethany, to all of them. “Maker, give this young woman a place at your side. Let us take comfort in the peace she has found.” Carver reached to rise, gently guiding Leandra up with him, until Bethany lay beside Sidonie, her eyes now closed, her black hair falling like silk across her face.

Sidonie leaned forward to kiss her forehead, feeling tears wet on her cheeks as she did so, and then reached deep into her pool of magic to set the flames that would purge the darkness and send Bethany to the Maker in peace.

“I will never forget you, Bethany,” she whispered. Her mother had turned her face into Carver’s shoulder and was sobbing. He had his own tears to contend with. And all of it was horrible.

All of it was wrong.

Surely this was a dream.

It had to be a dream.

Aveline’s hand on her shoulder forced her back, bringing her to her feet.

“Our lives are more valuable to her than our prayers,” Sidonie said quietly, and her mother refused to look at her, but pulled away from Carver who nodded.

How had it all gone so wrong.

Sidonie forced herself to turn away from Bethany’s sad little fire, and caught sight of darkspawn climbing the hill. Her heart despaired. She gave in. She could not…No more…

“Flames, we’re too late,” Aveline cursed beside her, drawing her sword. Sidonie did not want to, could not do it. No more. No more. Please let it end.

A great shrieking roar split the sky, echoing above them, and she whipped around, panic making her heart thud in her chest. She could feel Carver at her side, there, right there. Aveline was breathing hard.

A dragon.

It perched on the rock outcropping above them, and unfurled its massive wings to roar again. Sidonie prepared herself for the worst. She prepared herself to die. Better here than at the end of a Templar’s blade in Kirkwall.

The dragon swooped down.

And then over them.

Flame burst forth and the darkspawn that were surrounding them howled in pain, their guttural sounds cut short by the burst of fire. The smell of flesh rose up about them, and the dragon twisted, ripping some of the Hurlocks from the ground and tossing them high into the sky to come crashing down to earth to die. And then there was a flash of light, as the Hurlocks fled, and the dragon became a woman with white hair styled into horns and yellow eyes, who sauntered towards them with an intrigued gaze.

“Maker,” she heard Carver exclaim beside her and she swallowed, hard. The woman stopped a few paces away, and looked them over.

“Well, well,” the woman said, planting one hand on her hip. “What have we here?” Carver took a step forward, but Sidonie stopped him, holding him back, her eyes narrowed. Behind them, someone fell, in full mail. The Templar. He was still wounded. She grimaced, then looked at the strange woman. “It used to be we never got visitors to the Wilds, but now it seems they arrive in hordes.” Sidonie quirked an eyebrow, deciding it best to play this woman at her own game. If she wanted to talk in glib ways, she would keep her happy until she knew what risk she may pose.

“Impressive,” she said simply. “Where did you learn how to become a dragon?” The woman gave her a little smirk, shaking her head and looking over them all again.

“Perhaps I am a dragon,” she said wryly. “If so, count yourself lucky. The smell of burning darkspawn does nothing for the appetite.” She turned then, pacing. “If you wish to flee the darkspawn, you should know you a heading in the wrong direction.” Carver gave a low hiss.

“So you’re just going to leave us here?” he demanded. The woman paused, then looked back over her shoulder.

“And why not?” she asked frankly. “I spotted a most curious sight.” She turned and drew close to them again, her walk still that saunter. “A mighty ogre, vanquished. Who could perform such a feat?” She smirked at the two of them then, and her eyes went cold. “But now my curiosity is sated, and you are safe…for the moment. Is that not enough?” Sidonie considered her, then looked back over her shoulder at her distraught mother and the injured Ser Wesley.

“We won’t be able to get through the darkspawn on our own,” she said simply. Whatever else this woman was, she was a mage, an apostate like her.

“They are everywhere,” the woman agreed, “or soon will be. Where is it you plan to run to, hmm?” Sidonie met those strange yellow eyes and felt a power she did not want to feel rippling back in the space between them. This woman was old, very old, and dangerous, and oh so powerful. And it scared her a little.

“We’re going to Kirkwall,” Carver said flatly, before Sidonie had decided if she even wanted to tell the woman. “In the Free Marches.”

“Kirkwall?” The woman scoffed. “My, but that is quite the voyage you plan. So far, simply to flee the darkspawn.” Sidonie felt a ripple of annoyance and sighed.

“Any better suggestions?” she asked sarcastically. “I hear the Deep Roads are vacant now.” The woman just surprised her by laughing, a deep and genuine laugh.

“Oh you I like,” she said with a grin, baring teeth Sidonie had half expected to see filed to points. The woman mused over it a moment, then smiled. “Hurtled into the chaos you fight…and the world will shake before you.” She turned away again, pacing back and forth before them, arms crossed. Sidonie narrowed her gaze. “Is it fate or chance? I can never decide.” And then, as if she had made up her mind about something important, she turned back. “It appears fortune smiles on us both today,” she said simply, and Sidonie instantly felt on guard. The woman wanted something now. “I may be able to help you.”

“There must be a catch,” she said darkly. The woman grinned.

“There is always a catch,” she said forcefully. “Life is a catch! I suggest you catch it while you can!” Carver shifted nervously behind her.

“Should we even trust her?” he asked hesitantly. “We don’t even know what she is.”

“I know what she is,” came the grim tones of Aveline behind them. “The Witch of the Wilds.”

“Some call me that,” the old woman said. “Also Flemeth, Asha’Bellanaar, an “Old Hag that Talks Too Much”. She gave a soft chuckle at that last one, like it was recent and from an unlikely source. “Does it matter? I offer you this: I will get your group past the horde in exchange for a simple delivery to a place not far out of your way. Would you do this for a Witch of the Wilds?”

“Wesley is injured,” Aveline said suddenly, and Sidonie nodded at that. He could never make it on foot. None of them really could. They had little choice.

“If you need to,” Wesley said quietly, “leave me behind.”

“No,” Aveline said decisively. Sidonie considered a moment, then licked her lips.

“I have to reach Kirkwall first,” she finally said, laying down her terms. The Witch smiled wryly.

“But you will do it,” she said, reading between the lines. “There is a clan of Dalish elves near the city of Kirkwall. Deliver this amulet,” it was in her hand suddenly, like it had always been there ready for this. She passed it over and Hawke felt the weight of it, an unnatural weight. It was carved with a growing tree, “to their Keeper, Marethari.” Then her eyes narrowed. “But before I take you anywhere, there is another matter.” Her yellow eyes slid to Wesley and Aveline and it took Sidonie a moment to realize what she was saying. She turned, staring. Aveline looked up with wild eyes.

“No!” she spat. “Leave him alone!” Wesley gave a hacking cough, and veins of silver now lined his face, dark and twisting.

“What has been done to your man,” the Witch said gently, “is within his blood already.”

“You lie!” Aveline said, rising and putter herself between them.

“She’s right, Aveline,” Wesley said from the ground. His voice was weak. “I can feel the corruption inside me.” Sidonie narrowed her eyes. Corruption? Darkspawn corruption?

“This corruption is the permanent sort I take it?” she asked quietly. The Witch raised her chin.

“The only cure I know of is to become a Grey Warden,” she said cryptically. “And the last are now beyond your reach.” So it was true then. Eideann and Alistair were the last two. She gritted her teeth.

Aveline dropped to Wesley’s side, her face a mask of despair. He braced himself against the pain, meeting her eyes.

“Aveline, listen to me,” he began, but she shook her head.

“You can’t ask me this! I won’t!” Her hand crept into his, and he drew his knife from his tabard, holding it out to her.

“Please. The corruption is a slow death. I can’t…” He sounded so desperate. Aveline looked to Sidonie then, as if she could help, as if there was anything she could do. Sidonie just shook her head.

“He’s your husband, Aveline,” she said quietly. She looked away then, fixing a look on Wesley. A shadow thick over her.

And then her fingers curled around the knife.

It slid up and in, beneath the gap in his armor, reaching his heart, and he slipped away in her arms. And Aveline bent her head.

The Witch watched a moment in silence, and Sidonie carefully reached for the spell for fire as she had done with Bethany.

“Ashes we were,” she said softly, as Carver helped Aveline to rise. “And ashes we become.” And the spell ignited, and flames licked around the metal of his armor as he lay beside Bethany’s burning body. A Templar and an Apostate together.

Then the Witch sniffed.

“It is time,” she said, and stepped back several paces. Sidonie looked the to her Mother, who was shaking all over and staring at Bethany, and she reached to guide her forward towards the Witch.

The amulet in her hand felt like ice, it was so cold. And it was still too heavy. She tucked it away, carefully, into a pocket for safekeeping. When they were gathered together in the clearing, the Witch reached down deep into old magic, and the earth rose up through the Blighted land to meet them, a twisting gnarled tree that closed about them.

Sidonie felt the dizzy sensation of travelling hundreds of miles. And when at last they broke the surface again and the gnarled roots unfurled, they stood in a green copse, a place the Blight had not touched, and the sunlight was glistening on the sea before them.

Down in the distance was the dwarven-style architecture of Gwaren, once a Deep Roads outpost sealed with the Blights, now a human port and the seat of Loghain’s Teyrnir. They were several hours walk from the city yet, but it was enough. Sidonie turned to thank the Witch, but the woman was gone. And the only proof she had ever been there lay in that amulet, cold and heavy in her pocket.

“Come on,” she said quietly to the group. “We need to see if there are any ships.” And she set off through the thick green of the Brecilian Forest in the direction of the sea, Aveline, Carver, Lady, and her Mother all that remained in tow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hawkes flee Ferelden by ship; Sidonie grieves the loss of her sister; the party arrives in Kirkwall where they learn things will not be as easy as they thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence

Gwaren was alive with people who could not care less if Sidonie and her family lived or died. In fact, the flurry of activity seemed to suggest everyone was preparing to leave. The center of the city was a deep salt-water inlet surrounded by dwarven stone. Sidonie felt instantly trapped amidst all the towering walls, walking the piers where anyone at any moment could be pushed off into the waters.

The tower was built atop the Deep Roads settlement that was lost during the Blight, and so it was sealed, but there were a great number of surface dwarves about, scurrying to and fro, masons and stone-smiths plying their trade to keep the whole place standing.

Great ships stood in the harbor, teeming with people trying to flee. They flew all colors: Ferelden, Orlesian, Marcher, even Antivan and Tevinter. They sat along the piers, tethered to stone blocks with thick ropes and chain, floating on the incoming tide.

The scent of the sea was overridden by the smell of filth from a city so full. Up on the hill looking over it all stood a magnificent fortress of stone carved in the dwarven fashion. That was Gwaren’s Keep, the home of the Teyrn, when he bothered to be at home. He was absent now, ruling from somewhere up in Denerim. Rumors were easy to come by on the piers, and Sidonie heard enough about him proclaiming himself regent that she believed it. After all, for a man who had no qualms betraying his king, why wouldn’t he make himself regent? That is probably what he wanted.

Gwaren was a mess, twisting streets and garbage everywhere, and all lanes seemed to lead to the sea. They wandered the streets, footsore and weary, until there was nowhere else to wander. They had to sell half their belongings, her Mother weeping over each one, in order to barter passage, and even then it was only because the Captain who agreed to help them was Kirkwallian himself, and he knew the Amell name at least. It held enough sway to get them passage in the hold, deep in the depths of a small cutter that skimmed the waves and made sure they felt each and every damn ripple.

Aveline was sick three times in the first day, bent over a bucket in the hold. Leandra sat, staring at nothing, grief slowly drowning her, and she would not look at Sidonie even once. Carver was sharpening his sword, over and over and over and over, until she worried he might just sharpen it right away. He did look to her though, across Lady, and his eyes were haunted, and his soul empty.

Sidonie grieved the only way she knew how, but turning away and burying herself in a corner of the hold. Above, the sky poured through the grate that led to the deck, and sun or rain, night or day, she could feel the salt breeze above. She leaned into the wood of the wall, and dug the amulet from her pocket, staring at it.

 _This is your fault!_ She felt the blow of it again, felt it hit her hard, like the world was all against her. Some part of Leandra believed it, believed it was her fault. Which part? And why? And how long?

Because she had jumped out of the way and saved herself? Because she was the first-born, an Apostate first before Bethany, and the reason they were in Lothering after so many years running? Because she had not tried hard enough to convince them to go, even though she had done all she could and gotten them that far on desperation and ferocity alone?

She turned the amulet over in her hands, over and over, watching it catching the light. A small thing, a small trade for safety.

Two lives, their home, their whole way of life, and possibly her freedom. A small trade? She tucked it away angrily. It would never be small. Could never be small. And she would never pay a price like it again.

Kirkwall was a bad idea. It was all wrong, returning there. Her father had fled the Gallows where the Circle Mages were kept to be with her mother. Her mother had never gone back. For all she had Marcher blood, Sidonie was Ferelden. They were Ferelden. Kirkwall was all wrong now.

And it was dangerous. She was an apostate. She knew damn well the worst places for apostates to go, and top on that list was Kirkwall, where they said the Knight-Commander hunted mages for sport. If she was caught there, she would be lucky to get away with mere imprisonment. And there was nothing about Kirkwall that made her believe she could be lucky there.

She buried her head in her shoulder, hunching herself over so she was as small as she could make herself. Her staff lay alongside her, and she could feel it humming with lyrium and magic through her fingers where she kept a hand on it. Just in case.

Lady moved, nudging her and giving a low whine, but Sidonie did not move, could not move. How was she ever going to live with this? How was she ever going to be alright again?

How would she find the money to feed her family, after so long as a peasant’s daughter? She had earned their coin through doing odd jobs, hunting and trapping (usually by magic, though not many were aware). Kirkwall had nothing like Ferelden’s forests or the rolling hills of the Bannorn. It was a sea coast, a City-State nestled amidst unwelcoming stone. Her father had told her that it was isolated even from the farms where it got most of its food, and that there were only two ways into Kirkwall: the northern gate that led to rugged terrain or the docks which lay beyond the Gallows.

Kirkwall was an old Tevinter settlement, a former slaver base, where the empire had ferried thousands of slaves to work in their homes, warm their beds, or spill their blood for Magister magic. It made her uneasy to think it could ever be home.

It did not matter if her mother was a noble there. It did not matter if there was family there. All that mattered was that Bethany was gone, Lothering was gone, and the world she knew was gone.

She thought then of her father, of Malcolm Hawke’s lopsided smile and bravado, of his sharp laugh and the way he used to take her and Bethany out into the fields far from Lothering where spells would fly and he taught them how to control magic properly. She thought of losing him three years back to an illness that had spread through Lothering, brought by a caravan from Redcliffe. Malcolm Hawke had always been strong. To see him in those days, wasting away, until his cheeks were sunken, his hands clammy and pale, and he reached for her with dulled eyes to say her name.

And then he was gone, and they had taken him to the Chantry, where they gave him a service and Malcolm Hawke departed the world.

At least Bethany had gone quickly. At least there was that.

She could feel the wetness on her cheeks, and struggled to stop her shoulders from shaking as she leaned further into the wood of the ship’s hold, trying to keep her grief silent. She wanted to scream, and to cry. She wanted to wake up from this horrible nightmare of rolling seas and stormy skies and death. She wanted the orchards back, throwing apples at Carver while Bethany shouted at her with her hands on her hips. She wanted the Dane’s Refuged, dancing with the village boys, drinking the evening away and winning coin when Carver challenged the other patrons to arm wrestle, until Bethany would come to bring them home, all well behaved, no nonsense, the voice of reason in the night.

Where would that reason be now? Where would the temperance be? Mother was too bereaved, and never had been able to leash Carver and Sidonie down with her petty noble manners and her wilting modesty. Malcolm had been able to reign in his daughters, but never his son, who had felt betrayed by the lack of attention he received compared to his mage siblings. Bethany had been the one to keep Carver in check, his twin, his other side. Sidonie did not know how to fill that place. Her anger and her passion was buried only surface deep. She could not keep her own in check and manage Carver’s too.

How would she ever get through all this?

_This is your fault!_

That night the storm swept the ship, and three of the passengers in the hold with them died. Each morning, the crew would leap down the steps to gather any who had been lost and toss them into the Amaranthine Ocean, which roiled and churned in protest. The ship was not made for such voyages, carting people hundreds of miles. They stayed close to the coastline, always within sight of Ferelden, but because they were in the hold Sidonie could not see it.

Aveline finally stopped being sick somewhere into the fifth day, when they drew close to Denerim and the sounds of other ships could be heard in the distance, bells ringing and rigging creaking, and the shouts of sailors on the wharf dim and distant. It was a drizzly day, rain misting through the grate from above down into the hold, but Sidonie and Aveline managed to convince the sailors to let them come up for a few moments, to see the city and get some fresh air.

They stood together then, all four of them and the dog, watching Denerim as they passed it by, the tall towers and the vicious spike of Fort Drakon, the castles and the run down dock warehouses. The rain chilled them, seeping into their flesh and down to their bones. Sidonie shivered, but stayed, staring at her homeland.

For years they had run through the Free Marches, always fleeing the Templars, until Malcolm had brought them south through Ferelden to Lothering, and there he had stopped. That would be home, he decided firmly, and so it was. They bought a house, Malcolm took up farming and hunting work, and Leandra did odd jobs sewing or mixing medicines and tonics. Carver and Bethany had been too young to remember the Free Marches, but Sidonie had snatches of memories there: white sand, stony coasts, the feel of the sun on her skin blaring down through the clouds, and the feeling of something old and lost hovering over it all. The feeling that we will never be what we were and a fierce pride in all that had been before.

Which was horrible. All that past led to slaves, led to blood magic, led to class warfare and the Tevinter Imperium. All that past led to nightmares and rigid systems that bickered and fought. The Free Marches was not a single country, just a multitude of individual city-states, gathered in the craggy mountains along the Waking Sea between Nevarra and Antiva. And they were always at each other’s throats.

Sidonie had never been to Kirkwall, where her mother and father had met. She remembered Tantervale, which had been brash and garish. She also remembered Starkhaven, which was darker, grimmer from its history as the site of the Second Blight for all it glittered with gold and extravagance. She knew she had lived for a time on the outskirts of Wycome, but did not recall much of that. Kirkwall was a mystery though, and Kirkwall had a reputation. And it scared her. In Kirkwall, the Templars reigned supreme.

As Ferelden slipped away beyond the horizon and the ship lurged out to open sea, Aveline was sick again, this time over the side, and then they filed back down into the hold to suffer the rest of the journey there. Ferelden was behind, and ahead only her concerns for the future and the trap that was the City of Chains.

***

Kirkwall was indeed the City of Chains. Sidonie saw the great chain, covered in mildrew and seaweed, stretched high overhead between two wailing gold statues in Tevinter style as the ship skimmed beneath. That chain could block the harbor, she knew, and she did not like it. She rose to her feet, feeling the entire experience of standing reverberate through her, and Lady stretched beside her, jumping up to join her. It had been a miracle they could bring her, really, given the number of refugees fleeing the Blight.

They were in some sort of channel, carved of massive rock and cut through the Kirkwall cliffs. By magic, Sidonie thought to herself as she gathered with the others about the foot of the ladder, the shadows of the cliffs casting them into semi-darkness in the hold. Her mother stood beside Carver, staying close and looking older than Sidonie had ever seen her. The mage exchanged a look with Aveline, who had finally overcome her seasickness and was grim-faced beside her.

At last the ship bumped the port, lurching to a stop that threw some of the refugees off balance, and then the grate swung back and they climbed out into the blinding sunlight of the Free Marches.

Everywhere was white sandstone and iron cages. Refugees flocked onto the pier, jostling for space, and a restless crowd was gathered at the far end, the way blocked by several armored men clad in orange and grey uniforms.

“They’re not letting anyone into the city,” Aveline said despairingly.

“What?” Leandra looked up in alarm, as if she had not noticed until then they had even arrived. Sidonie felt a flash of concern. “That can’t be!”

“It’s true. Look at them all,” Aveline said, pointing to the crowd gathered. Sidonie shook her head.

“Are we really surprised?” Carver asked dejectedly. He was not nearly as weepy as their mother was, but he still had that dark and empty look in his eyes. He had lost so many friends at Ostagar. And then everyone in Lothering. And Bethany. Sidonie tore her gaze away. “Everyone’s fleeing the Blight, just as we are,” Carver said, his voice almost gentle, aimed at their Mother whose brows knitted in worry.

“And they would throw us all back to the wolves,” Aveline grimaced. “Unbelievable.” Carver shook his head at her, resigned. Hawke gave a mirthless laugh.

“I’m only surprised they let us dock,” said grimly.

“We need to find Gamlen,” Leandra said firmly, the first firm thing she had said since Lothering. Gamlen, her brother, was the one they had come to see. “Our family has always been highly regarded in Kirkwall. He can do something, I’m sure of it.” They all gazed at her then, and Sidonie felt the smack of unrealistic expectations. Carver was right on board with it, sighing.

“Let’s hope he received your letter,” he said simply. Aveline took the lead, her head tilted to assess the situation.  
“The guards seem to be reporting to that man,” she said, motioning to one of the orange and grey armored men near the center of the line. “Perhaps we should speak to him.”

There really was only one thing for it then, to push their way to the front and find out what was going on and what to do next.

So they did just that, until they reached the guard, and he stepped forward to block the way, shaking his head.

“Get back to the crowd, you lot,” he said in a flat voice like this was the umpteenth time he had said as much that day alone. “Trying to bully your way through won’t get you into Kirkwall any faster.” Sidonie narrowed her eyes.

“But you _do_ intend to let us in?” Aveline said darkly. The guard just shook his head in annoyance and gave a snort of laughter.

“We have enough poor of our own in the Free Marches. We don’t need you refugees piling up here like a midden’s heap.” Sidonie felt a brush of anger and tempered it down carefully. She could not use her father’s fire trick in the middle of the square. Instead she drew a deep breath, then fixed the man with a determined look.

“This fortress…is it a prison?” she asked him frankly. They were not in Kirkwall, she could tell now. Kirkwall was across the harbor, further beyond. They were in the fortress located on the island in the sea. She suspected she knew exactly where she was as well, and did not like it one bit.

“It used to be,” the guard said simply, “back in the Imperial days. They kept slaves here until the rebellion. Now the Templars run it, and use it to lock up their mages. Guess not much has changed.” This was the Gallows, where her father had been in the Circle. Sidonie felt a tremble of fear, but she pushed it away. No.

“Are mages imprisoned here?” she asked, a little incredulous. She wanted the truth from this man. She needed to know. The Ferelden Circle had taken her cousins, and she had never heard from them again. But the rumors were Kirkwall was worse. She wanted to know just how worse it could be.

She could feel the stares of Carver, Aveline, and her mother on her, and felt uncomfortable.

“No more than anywhere else,” the guard said, giving her an odd look. “It’s a Circle of Magi now. ‘Magic is to serve man, not rule him’, and mages are better locked up where they don’t hurt anyone.” Well, if that was what the local guard believed, she was well and truly in hell.

And what of Bethany? Part of her was a little glad she had never made it this far. At least in Ferelden she had died free.

“Why aren’t we being allowed into the city?” she asked, determined to keep her anger in check. Aveline crossed her arms beside her, ready to back her up if need be.

“If it were up to me,” the guard said angrily. “I’d bar the gates and let you find somewhere else to beg. But it’s not.” Lucky for them then. “Some of you lot might have legitimate business in the city, so Knight-Commander Meredith wants us to sort you all out. Most of you are getting right back on your ships though.” Sidonie exchanged a look with Carver, and he shook his head a little.

“That’s a Templar title. Why would a city guardsman answer to the Templars?” she asked, and the guard gave her a smirk like she was simple. Did he think she did not know the Templars were at their strongest here? But what were Templars doing manning the docks?

“We don’t answer to her,” he told them. “But she’s the power in Kirkwall. Don’t know what would happen if the Viscount went against something she wanted…but he’s sure never taken that chance.” Sidonie did not like the sound of that. She shifted her stance, looking about, then crossed her arms.

“There must be someone in charge I can speak with,” she said a little annoyed now. He rolled his eyes.

“Yes, yes, always the same story,” he sighed, but waved them through. “You want in, talk to Captain Ewald. I’m just here to keep you refuse from climbing the walls.” Sidonie gave him a dark glare, which he returned, and then she stalked past him.

The Gallows was truly like a prison further on. There were more iron bars, the stone steps disappearing through a tunnel into courtyard packed with refugees. The Gallows itself rose up behind it all, a tower of white sandstone, thrust high into the sky, all sharp corners and Tevinter cruelty in architectural form. Near the steps, she caught sight of Captain Ewald, surrounded by a number of people in Ferelden Army armor. Deserters.

She caught sight of Carver then, who looked distinctly uncomfortable, and Aveline had narrowed her green gaze into slits.

She made her way between the statues of begging and weeping and wailing golden slaves, feeling unsettled that this was a Circle of Magi, and pushed her way through the Ferelden soldiers to reach the front.

Captain Ewald was listening with tired eyes, his head slightly tilted in boredom at the story he had no doubt heard a thousand times before.

“Let us through, you flaming blighter!” the soldier was shouting at him, far more animated than the Captain. “We’re not staying in this pit!”

“Then get back on your ship and _leave_ ,” Captain Ewald said flatly. “Kirkwall has no more room for refugees.”

“The ship’s already gone! We paid good coin to get here!” another shouted. The Captain simply turned his gaze on that man instead.

“You and half of Ferelden. There’s nothing I can do. The city is full.” Sidonie gave him a wry look.

“One of the guards said you were letting in people who have business in the city,” she said softly, and they all turned to look at her then, the Captain and the soldiers both.

“That’s right!” the soldier who had been shouting previously said. “We’ve seen you let _lots_ of people through!”

“Citizens,” Captain Ewald said forcefully, “and merchants that make it worth our while. I’ll assume,” he turned his bored stare on her, “that you don’t have any more coin than these gentlemen?” He waved the thought away with one hand. “We’ve been letting you Ferelden’s in for weeks. You’re too late. There’s no more room.” Sidonie grimaced.

“But we’ve got family here!” Carver said beside her, and she heard the desperation in his normally steady voice. Sidonie nodded, fixing the guard with a look and crossing her arms.

“I’ve heard claims like that a thousand times already, trust me,” the Captain said simply, shaking his head. “We’ll find some ships to take you all back to Ferelden eventually. Until then, you stay here.”

“Surely,” Sidonie said darkly, “there’s someone higher up that we could persuade?”

“The city has been closed by order of the Viscount and Knight-Commander Meredith, whose fortress you’re standing in,” was the reply. “As far as you’re concerned, I’m in charge.” Sidonie pursed her lips, annoyed. To have come so far! She would not be turned back now. She could almost feel her mother wilting away.

 _This is your fault!_ She would not let their being turned away be her fault either. Nothing would stop them.

“If you find our uncle, Gamlen Amell, you might just have a few less refugees bothering you,” she suggested, making her voice as charming as possible. The man quirked an eyebrow.

“Gamlen?” he said in surprise. “I know that name.” He should. The Amells had an estate, were nobility. Finally, they were getting somewhere. Carver jumped right in to the plan, nodding enthusiastically.

“He’s a nobleman here in the city,” he said firmly. “Our family has an estate.” The guard gave them an odd look, then licked his lips.

“A nobleman? The only Gamlen I know is a weasel who couldn’t rub two coppers together,” he said. Sidonie felt a shot of suspicion slide through her and settle in the pit of her stomach. The guard sighed. “Look, if he comes back I’ll bring you to him. But I don’t have time to – “ He trailed off, his eyes narrowing. The Ferelden soldiers were still there, and now they were angry.

“What?!” their leader demanded, drawing his sword. “You’re going to let them through?!”

“I didn’t say anything about – “

“We’ve been here for four days!” the second soldier cried. “They just got here!” The leader twisted his grip on his sword.

“That’s it!” he declared angrily. “We’re carving our way out of here. Men!”

And that was how, on the first day in Kirkwall, Sidonie, Carver, and Aveline ended up in the middle of a brawl.

Sidonie could not use magic, not there. She had to be careful and she knew it. Instead, she thanks the years of sparring with Carver and her ability to master her polearms training. She had learned some of it from Malcolm, but most of it was just her style, and it paid off then in the square.

It felt wrong to fell Fereldens fleeing the Blight just as she was. These were men who had fled northward from Ostagar as the horde invaded the Wilds. They were frightened, and they had nothing but the armor they wore. They had seen what Carver had seen, what Aveline had seen, what many more would see. It was wrong.

But they had no choice. The soldiers turned on them as much as they did the Kirkwall city guard. And they found themselves in the thick of the fight without warning.

It felt good, too, in a way, to stretch her legs and swing her staff again. She had not realized just how horrible being cramped in a hold for several weeks had really been. It had left her achy and sore. This was a good stretch, though she already knew her muscles were complaining for the sudden exertion and she had lost some of her strength down in the belly of the ship on lurching seas.

“Well, at least it’s not boring,” she called to Carver, who was beside her, his greatsword in hand, back to back. He just gave her a dark look and said nothing.

It did not take long. The Ferelden soldiers were finished off, and Captain Ewald put up his sword, shaking his head.

“Unbelievable,” he groaned. One of his men came running up, the soldier who had manned the gates before, and gave a salute, sword in hand.

“Captain!” he said breathlessly. “Are you alright?!”

“I am, no thanks to you,” Captain Ewald said darkly, his eyes looking bored and fed up again. That was a career that was drowning, to be sure. “Where is everyone? Go find them. I want this kept under control.” Yes, where had all the other guards been? Really…such lax defenders of the peace.

Ewald looked to her then, sighing.

“You have my thanks,” he said simply. It had been him against a whole patrol of Ferelden soldiers after all. He could have died. Sidonie knew it too. She just shrugged. “Look, I can’t get you into the city. It’s not my decision. But I’ll find your uncle and bring him here.” It was something at least. So she thanked him for that kindness and they parted ways.

They found Leandra standing in a corner against a wall in the shade somewhere beyond the golden slave statues that gave Sidonie the creeps. After explaining the situation, they sank down to wait. Carver vanished to trade in whatever was in his bag, hoping for something that could at least give them some food. Sidonie did not ask what he had brought, but she knew it was going to cost him, and so she said nothing, deciding it was better to be grateful.

And so they sat, and waited for Uncle Gamlen and the chance at a new start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given the fact that this series is a chronological writing, this particular book won't be as long as others. It primarily covers the Hawkes' flight to Kirkwall and sets up a lot of Sidonie's story. So, it will be finished in 3 chapters, and then we're on to Book 3 and back to the Blight. :) Thanks for reading, and for comments in any part of this series. I love hearing from people, be it comments or questions, and I always try to respond when possible. ~HigheverRains


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver and Sidonie arrange to enter Kirkwall; Carver already feels that the situation is less than ideal; Aveline has an idea to help them get by for the year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence (mild)
> 
> Comments always welcome.
> 
> This is the last chapter of Dances in Darkness Book 2: Kirkwall. [Visit Dances in Darkness for Book 3: Warden](http://archiveofourown.org/series/241561)

It took three days for Uncle Gamlen to bother to show his face. The bastard took his sweet time, and promptly informed them he had lost the estate in settling some debt or the other. 

Carver felt the anger at the whole damn situation, and the way Sidonie tried to charm their Uncle into letting them through the gates made him even more annoyed. Didn’t she realize that sweet-talking people would get them nowhere? They needed coin to pay the bribes to get through the gate, or something else of worth.

Part of him wanted to suggest she strip off her armor and leggings and see what that earned them, but he held his tongue. Mother was there. And anyway, he did not like the way the guardsmen had been eyeing them all up, like before long that would be the only way to get in at all.

Carver was not a fool. He had spent enough time in the Ferelden Army since joining up at 15 after his father had died. He knew full well the sort of trouble a handful of soldiers got into, the least of which being tattooing mabari on their arses prior to a big fight. If Sidonie ever found out…

He crossed his arms.

“I was hoping to grease some palms,” Uncle Gamlen said to their Mother, “but the Knight-Commander’s been cracking down. We’re gonna need more grease.” His grey hair was slicked back, and a strong nose sat between narrow eyes. Uncle Gamlen looked like just the sort of man Carver would spend time beating in a tavern brawl. 

Except smaller.

“I know some people who might help,” Uncle Gamlen continued, shifting his gaze to Carver and Sidonie now. Mother looked disappointed with him. Sidonie sighed.

“Do we _need_ to stay in Kirkwall?” she asked, and it would have been a perfectly reasonable question from anyone else. But it was Sidonie whose presence made this awkward, Sidonie who had to be an apostate in a Templar’s city, Sidonie who had dragged them there from Gwaren. She always had to know best, didn’t she?

“This was my home!” Mother said, getting the determined look she got when she was trying to scold them into behaving and failing miserably. “I can’t believe they won’t let me come back.” Uncle Gamlen shook his head.

“Every city on the coast’s been hip-deep in Fereldans since the Blight began,” he explained simply. The creases on his forehead deepened. “You could try your luck further inland, I suppose. But it won’t be easy.” He was trying to get rid of them. Carver wondered again about those so-called debts.

“No,” he said firmly, glaring at Sidonie for bringing it all up in the first place. She might be older, but she was smaller than him now. “We’re not putting Mother through that. We came here, we’re staying _here_.” And that was final. He pointed at the ground for added effect. Sidonie just gave him a nonplussed look with Father’s eyes and sighed.

“I’ve got two offers of work from people who’ve got the coin to open those gates,” Uncle Gamlen said irritably. 

“I still can’t believe you sold the estate!” Mother despaired. “Gamlen, how could you?” Uncle Gamlen fixed her with a wry look.

“Well, I didn’t expect your blasted family to show up on my doorstep,” he muttered. “I’ve got a nice place in Lowtown. You’ll see. It’ll all work out.” Lowtown? Whatever that was, it sounded like a cesspit. What sort of person lived in Lowtown, unless they had to. Then again, he supposed they had to.

How different could it be from Lothering really? Aside from all the damn walls. And the Templars. And the refugees flooding the city looking for anything to survive. 

Maker.

“We don’t have any choice, do we?” Sidonie relented at last. Uncle Gamlen cracked a smile like he had gotten his way at last, and Carver glowered. He never had been good at hiding his emotions, and he had been told before he had a very expressive face. Aveline shifted beside them, crossing her arms.

“The catch is,” he said, trying his best to look like it pained himm “you and your brother will have to work off the debt. For a year.” 

“A year!” Mother exclaimed. 

“It’s the best I could do! Trust me when I say a bunch of refugees won’t get a better option anywhere else,” Uncle Gamlen said hurriedly. Sidonie looked like thunder. Carver grimaced.

“So you’re selling us into indentured servitude?” Sidonie said darkly. “That’s your idea?” Uncle Gamlen put on a false smile.

“Think of it as having a job waiting for you in your new home!” he tried to say, but his smile slipped halfway through.

A job was one thing, but working for a year for free to pay off this debt…Carver did not like it one bit. But he sighed, shaking his head and running his hand into his mussed hair. It needed a wash. 

“I guess it’s only a year, right?” he said grimly. Still a year, but only a year. Sidonie turned her head slightly to look sidelong at him. Then she sighed too.

“Fine,” she said flatly. “Who are these people?”

“Meeran,” Uncle Gamlen began, “heads up the mercenary company, the Red Iron. They’re looking for recruits. Athenril…I guess you might call her a smuggler.” Such great contacts. Really. Wonderful. 

If he had to pick, he’d rather be a mercenary though, with his skills. At least Sidonie could use that halberd as more than a fancy staff. They may be able to hide better that way.

“Either one of them can help you,” Gamlen assured them. “All you need to do is find them in the courtyard and convince them you’re worth the trouble.” Sidonie looked to Carver then, her look unintelligible.

“What do you think about all this?” she asked him after a moment, and she looked very tired. They were all tired. Defeated nearly. And still they had hardly had the chance to grieve for Bethany…

It hurt even to think about it, and something must have crossed his face because Sidonie’s eyes softened sadly. Carver grimaced. He hated when she saw him looking weak. He hated being weak. Like he was less than her. 

“What can I say?” he said quietly. “Better here than nowhere.” And that was really all that they could say about the situation. Kirkwall was horrid, and he hated it already, but there was no space anywhere else either, and at least Gamlen was there, for all the good it would do them. 

“Then let’s find them,” Sidonie said after a moment, “and see what they have to say.”

“And what about me?” Aveline said from beside them, nearly making Carver jump. He had almost forgotten she was there. She fixed Uncle Gamlen with a hard stare. “I won’t allow others to incur debts on my behalf.” Good, because Carver had no intention of incurring anything on her behalf. 

Uncle Gamlen just gave her a wry smile. 

“Can’t see that it makes a difference,” he said simply. “You look like a lady who can pull her own weight.” 

Carver turns away, heading back down the steps into the courtyard, Sidonie in tow. They wander awhile until they find a troop of crude and angry looking thugs in red quilted mercenary gear. Carver nods to them, then exchanges a glance with Aveline who looks as wary of the group as he is. But mercenary work is better than smuggling, and mercenary work can keep them safe from the guard. There is a measure of legitimacy to mercenary work that just does not exist in smuggling, and since smugglers usually traded in lyrium, and lyrium usually went to Templars, this was the safer bet. Sidonie and he both know it, and Aveline too most likely. 

Meeran turned out to be a grumpy old codger with a stick up his ass who let his eyes wash liberally over the entirety of Carver’s sister with such blatant lust that Carver had to stop himself from pushing Sidonie behind him and confronting the man himself. But Sidonie took it in stride, whatever she thought of it - _probably likes the attention anyway_ \- and gave her unusually charming smile, the slightly wonky one that Malcolm Hawke was known for. 

“Meeran?” she asked. 

“And you must be Hawke? Nice.” He turned about, surveying Carver and Aveline then, and nodded. “Your uncle talked up a storm about you. He better not be blowing more smoke out his ass.” Carver got the distinct impression all of Kirkwall knew that was Gamlen Amell’s greatest talent, that and losing money. 

“Our uncle doesn’t seem the sort to hang out with mercenaries,” Sidonie said suspiciously. 

“He doesn’t.” Well at least the man was honest. Blatant and filthy, but honest. Carver had met a few men like him at Ostagar, and found as long as they were paid they’d never sell you out. “Gamlen cheated one of my men at a wallop match. You turn out, we’ll call it even.” Ah, so when Uncle Gamlen had told them they had jobs waiting, and to work for a year to pay off their debts, he had really meant they were being sold into slavery for a year to work of Uncle Gamlen’s debts. Carver sighed.

“I’d like to know more about you first,” Sidonie said flatly. Meeran just gave a wolfish grin. 

“Right. You’re not a Marcher like your Uncle,” he mused, then shrugged, pacing back and forth in front of his men. “The Red Iron is well known in these parts. We pick who we work for and keep our noses clean.” His weasely gaze slipped to them. “But anyone screws with us, we mess them up. Make sense?” 

Aveline raised her brows. 

“Makes sense,” she confirmed, as if that were the most simply exchange in the world. In a way it was. 

If they were so well known, that would be good for their family in terms of protection and in terms of options. After all, most refugees wouldn’t have such a chance. But the downside to being well-known was to be exposed. Carver’s gaze slid to Sidonie. Could she keep away from her little magic tricks in front of them all for a whole year? When she was angry, she did this trick their father used to do, of making fire flicker across her fingers, like she were letting off steam. 

But another part of him liked this deal, and if Sidonie could behave herself then they would be fine. It would be a good job, honest work, and keep them out of the way of the Templars. And Meeran, the slimy git, was growing on him a little, in the way the soldiers had done in the Fereldan Army. 

“All I know,” he said simply, more for Sidonie’s sake, “is if we join the company, I’m going to start talking like that.” And that was probably true. Sidonie glanced to him a moment, then her oxblood gaze shifted back to Meeran suspiciously.

“Getting us into the city will take a lot of coin,” she said quietly. He gave her his wolfish grin again, cackling, and Carver did not like that one bit.

“Did I mention the Red Iron gets paid pretty well?” he said wryly. “Not to mention your uncle said you were a mage.” He said it so loudly that even Sidonie cringed a little. Here, in the Gallows of all places! And what was Uncle Gamlen doing spreading that around to everyone and their great-grandfather!? “We’re willing to pay for that,” Meeran said firmly.

“I didn’t realize Gamlen told you _that_ ,” Sidonie said darkly, and he could recognize the anger in her. She looked back at him and he shook his head slightly. 

Meeran did not seem put off. He just shrugged again.

“You stick with us, you’ll be safe…for the year…at least…” It was not an answer to inspire much confidence, but Maker had Uncle Gamlen done it now. They really did not have much choice, now. Whatever the smuggler woman wanted, it was probably to do with Gamlen’s debts too, but she had not seen them yet, so she could not find them in a crowd. Meeran had, so it was all or nothing.

The same thought had clearly crossed Sidonie’s mind, because she stepped forward to stare down Meeran.

“Alright. We’ll prove we’re worth your time, and you keep that business to yourself,” she said, and Meeran smirked. Then he nodded. 

“Noble bastard named Freidrich’s here in the Gallows. Gave us bad info, almost killed my men.” He crossed his arms. “Now he’s hiding out here, waiting for a ship. He sees us coming, he’ll run for sure.” There was some comfort that Meeran was willing to chase the man down for almost killing his men. If they were going to join the company, they would have that protection. It did not sound all that bad really. It may even be fun. Meeran’s eyes slipped to Carver then and he sneered. “But he doesn’t know you,” he said in a cold voice. “Go kill him and his men. We’ll make sure no one asks why.” 

There was a cold finality to it. Sidonie’s eyes narrowed, and then she turned abruptly away without another word. At first, Carver thought she had changed her mind, was walking away, but she slipped through the crowd of the Gallows, determination set, and he realized she meant to do it.

“Kill someone?” Aveline asked softly. Sidonie made no reply. Carver just shook his head.

“What can we do?” he asked sharply. “Smuggle lyrium until an addled Templar catches us out in a city where Templars rule?” That was definitely the worse option, surely. 

He thought of the Lothering Chantry then, and sparring with the Templars who taught him to use a greatsword in the Chantry yard after weeks of begging to be taught. They had thought him almost ready to commit to the Order, he knew, but he had been a step away all the time. The Templars were the enemy. The Templars would drag Bethany away, or Sidonie. The first hurt too much to think of. The second…well, Sidonie was his sister too for all she was a glory-hound, stuck up and thinking she knew what was right, never taking anything seriously and always showing Carver up. If Templars got their hands on her, he would kill them. There would be no doubt. But it would be different than with Bethany. 

That was not even something he had to consider anymore.

His soul ached again, a pinching, creeping darkness. He sighed. 

That said, he did in some ways understand Templars. They stood amidst magic and walked unafraid. They battled demons. They were meant to protect mages. And they had seemed like good people in Lothering. Here…well he did not really know what to expect here. 

Freidrich, the Kirkwallian noble, was rather obvious to find when all was said and done. Everyone else was in rags or battered armor, carrying only what they had with them to flee. Freidrich had a small company of armored mercenaries guarding not only his person but a collection of his belongings. He had a few crates of whatever it was rich people spent all their money on. And he was dressed in red and gold silk, sweating in the sharp Kirkwall sun. 

He had a nose that jutted from his face and seemingly brought his chin with it. His eyes were small and suspicious. He was pacing back and forth with arms crossed looking very nervous, and the refugees in the square were giving him a wide berth.

“Can you do this with just _that_?” Carver asked suspiciously, eyeing up Sidonie’s staff. There were a lot of men in Freidrich’s guard, and Sidonie was a mage. She gave him a flat look.

“Yes,” she said simply, as if it was a stupid question, so he shot her a sneer and sniffed, turning away. 

“He’s still there, but just…standing there,” one of the guards was saying, his voice a little worried. Freidrich shook his head.

“That bastard must want something from me…” Carver nudged through a group of refugees until they were in the open space around the Kirkwallian noble. They were noticed almost immediately. Sidonie stepped forward, her boots silent on the stone, her staff already in her hand.

“Who are these people? I demand to know!” Freidrich said sharply, as his guardsmen gathered about him. Sidonie considered them all.

“I saw them talking to Meeran,” one of the guards said. He looked like he had shit under his nose. 

“Meeran! You blithering idiot! Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Freidrich spat. He had very thin eyebrows that looked odd on his face, and hair that was so blond it almost ceased to exist. 

“We just want a way into Kirkwall,” Sidonie said softly. The man gave a twisted sneer.

“I don’t have that kind of money,” he told them. “I’m trying to escape this blasted city.” He shook his head, backing away as Sidonie brought her halberd up into a guarding stance, twisting it into a comfortable position with a rather unnecessary bit of flair.

“Then I’m sorry,” she said simply. 

“Don’t just stand there!” Freidrich cried. “Kill them!”

It was not a long battle. Freidrich’s guards were not well trained, all of them in Marcher scout armor. They had only daggers or bows, no big swords, and apparently little military experience. Aveline, Carver, and Sidonie had no trouble finishing them off, even when more appeared from around the corner, running back at the sound of a commotion from wherever they had been. 

At last there was only Freidrich left, and Sidonie did not hesitate. She spun her staff about, running him through with the spear end, then pulling it free. Blood splattered across the stones.

About them, the refugees were watching, frightened and wide-eyed. Carver looked to them then, and gave a disgruntled sniff. There were children in that crowd. 

Hardly the quietest run. But then mercenaries never were.

Sidonie did not say another word. She stalked past the refugees, the crowd parting for her, and left the nobleman and all his crates there for the crowd to pick through. There were guardsmen crossing to the scene, but none of them stopped the three of them. Instead, they simply went to hold back the crowds until something could be determined. 

Meeran noticed their approach far before they could actually reach him, and his look was the smug self-satisfied look that Carver had come to associate with good-for-nothings.

Sidonie fixed the man with her oxblood stare and shrugged.

“Dead and buried,” she said, as if it had been nothing, as if killing people was just going to be something they did now. “Well…dead.” Meeran gave a laugh.

“Good,” he grinned. “May the bloody vultures feed on his corpse and shit him into the ocean.” Graphic. Carver felt his lips smirk a little at the words. Nothing like classic merc talk. 

“I’m telling you,” he said with a laugh. “I love this guy.” 

“Welcome,” Meeran said, clasping each of their hands in turn, “to the Red Iron. Tell your uncle I’m making the arrangements now.” He peeled away from them then, and his uniformed men followed, only one glancing back to consider them. 

Sidonie sighed, then exchanged looks with Aveline and Carver before tilting her head in the direction of Uncle Gamlen and Mother. 

“Come on. Best tell them the wonderful news.” There was so much sarcasm in that, Carver wondered how she didn’t drown in it. 

They found Uncle Gamlen and Mother more or less where they had left them, loitering near the gates looking uncomfortable to be in one another’s presence. Mother had hardly ever mentioned how she and Father had met, but Carver knew it had something to do with Uncle Gamlen helping them, so he did not dislike the man outright. But really, what sort of daft git manages to lose an entire estate and all the funds left behind in debt? What on earth had the man spent it all on?

He presumed gambling. Uncle Gamlen seemed the type, especially after what Meeran said. Carver did not know if that meant they would have trouble by staying with Uncle Gamlen, or that they were no longer important enough to be bothered with. He did not know which he preferred. 

As they reached the top of the steps, Mother grimaced at their approach, as if the entire thing was a distasteful mess. Well, it was, but that look was rather unnecessary all said and done. At least they weren’t smuggling lyrium. There was that.

“I never thought I would find myself begging to be allowed back into Kirkwall,” she said despairingly. Carver sighed, and Uncle Gamlen looked them over with sharp eyes.

“Any luck?” he asked. Carver felt a little flicker of annoyance that Uncle Gamlen was using them to pay off his own debts, but ignored it, pushed it away.

“Was there every any doubt?” Sidonie said charmingly, but he could tell she was deflecting again. The annoyance made her bristle a little. He could almost feel…something. He always had around Sidonie, a sharp…sensation. Bethany was different, calmer. He did not know if that meant he could feel their magic, or that was just who they were. 

Uncle Gamlen grinned, a toothy grin that Carver half wanted to wipe from his face with his fist. But he held back, and Uncle Gamlen rubbed his hands together.

“I’ll speak to Meeran and see when the bribes can be made. Wait here,” he said, then meandered off through the crowd in the direction Meeran and his company had gone. All four of them watched him go, and Lady gave a low whine at Mother’s feet.

“I guess we did it. We’re here to stay, at least for a while,” Carver heard himself say. At least for a while. He did not know really what he thought of that. He already did not like Kirkwall.

Sidonie’s oxblood eyes were flat, a mask of resigned acceptance. 

“We’ll see what happens when this debt is repaid,” she said quietly. She did not like Kirkwall any more than he did, and probably for better reason. The Gallows was the Templar’s fortress, the Circle of Magi. And it was literally a prison. 

But if Mother caught Sidonie’s meaning, the fear underlying her resignation, she made no mention of it. Instead, she shook her head.

“If only Bethany were here with us,” she lamented. Aveline grimaced.

“And Wesley.” Her voice was soft, sad, none of the loud lamentations Mother was putting on. It hurt to think of Bethany. He did not want to. He shut it out, locked it away deep inside, and gritted his teeth.

“So, you’re Gamlen’s lot,” came a soft voice from beside them, making them all jump. It was an elf with brown hair and shifty eyes, clad in some sort of woven armor. She had at her back a handful of other shifty looking people. “I’m Athenril,” she introduced, but not in a kind or friendly way. “You tell Gamlen when he gets back that he still owes us, and I’ll be waiting.” Then she gave a sniff and turned away, stalking off with her crew and vanishing into the crowd.

Wonderful. Another thing to watch out for.

It got no better.

Uncle Gamlen waved them over to join him at the exit dock on the other side of the Gallows, meaning they got their first look at Kirkwall. The city was entirely stone, carved and vicious, all Tevinter architecture and grimy people and grimy buildings and grimy everything.

And that was just the nice parts. 

Uncle Gamlen led them up the city docks, a smelly place filled with swearing sailors, half-hidden slavers, and too much awful fish, and past the warehouses of filthy sandstone. He lived not much farther up, higher on the cliffs at least, but up too many steps in the area he had called Lowtown. Lowtown may have been named for its position on the city, near the bottom of the steps. But more likely it was named because it was the literal home of the worst of society, minus a place Uncle Gamlen called Darktown, which from what Carver could gather was the sewer and beyond. Wonderful.

Uncle Gamlen lived in the slums of Lowtown, the part farthest from the market just shy of the Alienage. The Alienage itself was nice enough, boasting a few stalls for elven goods and the big tree elves seemed to like. Carver had heard the elves kept trees in the Alienages, but this was the first he had seen, and he liked it a little.

Uncle Gamlen’s house was in a series of apartments in a small square, iron spiked railings lining the patios. He lived directly above another family, and directly between two more, all the rooms crammed together between walls of shaved sandstone. He had three rooms, and about six pieces of furniture total. When Mother saw it, she looked like she was going to cry. 

Carver watched Sidonie sink into a seat. Aveline looked about, then sighed. Uncle Gamlen looked sheepish.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “there’s a well down the way if you want a wash, I suppose, but nothing here. I’ll put you in the guest room.” The guest room turned out to be miniscule, equipped with a set of filthy straw pallets on bunk-beds of rickety untreated wood. Uncle Gamlen had clearly been using it as an office/larder, because his documents declaring his debts were scattered over the small table in the room, and there was a barrel of salted fish and a smelly cheese that looked like it had never been edible in its lifetime. Carver grimaced.

Mother did cry then.

Sidonie sighed, eyeing up the bunk-bed, then glanced to Carver.

“You’re too big for the top,” she said in distaste, because it was true and because it hardly looked stable enough to even have a top.

“Yes, well,” Uncle Gamlen said, and then shook his head. “I’m going for a drink at the pub. I’ll be home later. Make yourselves comfortable.” Mother went into the room she would be sharing with Uncle Gamlen and shut the door, but they could hear her sobbing within. Sidonie sighed, sinking onto a rough wooden bench and crossing her arms, resting her head in them a moment. Then she looked up.

“I’ve had an idea,” Aveline said suddenly, sitting down across from her. Carver leaned on the table. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to put all our eggs in one basket.” That was true enough. “Also, it looks like this will be a small enough space for all of you to share without me. I’m going to go and see if they will accept me in the City Guard.” 

Carver bristled at the words, but he liked the plan. He nodded.

“Maybe I could go too, after we do this work for Meeran,” he said. Sidonie looked up.

“Anything’s better than begging,” she said grimly. But she was right. Either way, she and Carver had to work off this year, but Aveline promised to send what money she could in solidarity for helping her escape the Blight.

It was over that quickly, their journey to Kirkwall. Already the conditions were less than desirable. Carver hated Kirkwall, hated this, and he hated seeing Sidonie so insular when she had always been so outgoing. Mother was distraught, Uncle Gamlen was a gambling drunkard drowning in debt, and Carver was going to have to work his arse off for a mercenary who could not keep his eyes of his sister. 

Wonderful.

He missed Bethany. Her smile, her calming influence. Kirkwall would be the death of him. All that remained was to see how long it would take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **END DANCES IN DARKNESS BOOK 2: KIRKWALL**   
>  [Dances in Darkness Series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/241561)   
>  [Dances in Darkness - Book 3: Warden](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3892879/chapters/8705533)


End file.
